Winter Songs
by LovelyTomorrow
Summary: Are we where we come from? Are we what we do? The Cullen family contemplates. Post-Breaking Dawn
1. Chapter 1

**Winter Songs**

Disclaimer: These characters are the creation and property of Stephenie Meyer.

AN: This story was inspired initially by the documentary Nobody's Business, which is about a son trying to figure out his father's "story" with the idea that everyone has a story. It got me thinking about the Masen family of whom we know so little and a bunch of other things.

Also, you in no way need to read _Loch Ness Monster_ to understand this, but it takes place about a year and a half later, so for those of you who were curious what happens next...this might give you a very vague idea.

Please enjoy...

...

It was becoming an obsession.

_Masen_, she typed. _Masen, Chicago_. _Masen family history, Chicago._ Every search brought her less and less results, and she knew very few of them even had the potential to be helpful. And yet, she could not stop. All night she typed away, skimming through websites about Masen, Ohio and Masen Chemical Plants. None of them showed any promise--not that they should—not that Masen Surfactants should have some kind of link that stated their founder was somehow related to a seventeen year old boy who died of influenza almost a century ago. That would be ridiculous.

"Please, come to bed, love," Edward whispered in her ear for the third time that night. "Its useless."

"So cynical," she smiled but did not look away from the computer. "Have hope."

He shook his head, "But I see no point in this. Why try and find these people?"

"Because they're related to you," she kept typing. "They're your family."

"I have a family," he insisted.

"But, Edward," she finally turned to look at him, her golden eyes shining bright as they reflected off the computer's light. "If I could just find one person who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone that remembers _you_…"

He smiled and brought her face to his, "I'm right here, Bella. You don't need to remember me."

They kissed, and she ran a hand through his hair before whispering, "I'll come to bed soon, but I can't just stop."

He kissed her temple, as he stood up straight and smiled down at her, "So stubborn."

Her father had died a month ago, so he didn't push it. She needed a project to distract her. She hadn't said a word when she'd first sat down and began typing. It was just after the funeral. It was the first time she'd seen her mother in seven years, and she couldn't cry. She'd had to remember to fidget every few minutes. Her daughter had sung beautifully while her husband had accompanied her.

It was the first time he'd seen her identify as a Masen. She'd been a Swan for so long, and did not feel like a real Cullen until they had moved away from the beloved town of Forks. But now she wanted to be a Masen—or at least meet a Masen. It was an odd attempt to find family, but Edward understood it. She was reaching out, in the most painful way, to find what she had left behind forever.

...

Alice was not afraid of much. She did not remember being human, so there was no left over phobia of snakes or heights or clowns. She was becoming less and less afraid of not knowing what was going to happen, now that Jacob and Nessie were permanent parts of the family.

She was, however, deathly afraid of being alone. And she was alone, now. That was her own fault. Jasper had wanted to come, but she'd asked him not to. I need to do this on my own, she'd told him. She had not been alone for so long, and never when she had to do something so difficult.

9 Vandenberg Drive.

It was the only thing written on the sheet of white paper she held in front of her--the address of her only living family—Dorothy Daniels, daughter of her sister, Cynthia Brandon.

She had come up with so many ideas of how she would approach the door of her niece. She thought of procuring a Girl Scout uniform and selling cookies. She thought about pretending she was a journalist who wanted to interview her for some made-up story. She considered befriending one of her grandchildren and getting invited over. But as she stood and stared at the house Dorothy lived in, she found that she could not move. She could not see what was going to happen—not because of Nessie or Jake—but because she could not make up her mind.

...

They did not know they'd kept it this long.

They would probably be upset. At least, Bella would be upset. It was selfish. She'd wanted to give it all to charity, and they had kept it to collect dust in a storage unit. Nessie hadn't needed a crib in more than six years, and her pacifiers were only used once or twice. They were almost brand new, in perfect condition. Bella was right; they should have gone to charity.

And they would now—after seven long years—it was time.

"So soft," Rosalie held a blanket between her hands.

Esme smiled and took it, gently folding it and placing it in a box, "They're all soft."

She nodded and ran her hand down the cover of a children's book that had never been read. Nessie was never much of a fan of the two words sentences and simple characters.

"Would you like to start on the crib?" Esme asked, and a distracted Rose picked her head up as if she had been woken from a dream.

"I suppose," she whispered, placing the book in its designated box, and moving over to the white bars of crib.

"You don't have to," she shrugged. "We could save that for last, if you'd like."

"All right," Rose nodded. "Let's do that."

"Sure," Esme sat by the box of blankets and stared at them. "This is harder than I thought it would be."

"We kept them this long for a reason," she shrugged.

"Yes," she ran her fingers over the blanket on the top, and smiled at the memory of Nessie's tiny—though not as tiny as it should have been—body sleeping peacefully under it. "But it's senseless. We have no use for them. Other families need…"

"Right," she nodded once.

...

"Thank you," Carlisle whispered, his voice so low, Nessie wasn't sure he was speaking to her. "It means a lot…that you came."

"Oh," she smiled. "No problem. It seemed…" she shrugged, trying to find the right word, "Interesting." She'd never been to a real church before. It wasn't something either of her parents found particularly important.

"I hope it will be," he sighed. It had taken him many years to work up the courage to sit in a church. For years, he'd thought his skin would sizzle should he sit in a place of worship. Then, after he touched his hand to his father's cross, he avoided the church for fear that the pastor would be able to sense his evil.

Edward's presence had allowed him the excuse of fulfillment through discussion, making mass an unnecessary show of religious devotion. Esme had wanted to get married in a church. Edward had helped him come up with a logical reason not to.

It was his only fear.

"Are they going to sing?" Nessie asked, peering at the group of people clumped in the corner of the church with open books in front of them.

"I believe so," he nodded. It was odd how little had changed. Of course, much had—Latin was now English, women wore pants, the pastor wore sneakers, and the room was air-conditioned—but the majority of it was the same. The singing, the Homily, the Gospel, the idea of it all—the important things—time had not touched them.

"It's a beautiful place," she whispered, unsure if he wanted to talk.

"Yes," he scanned the church. There were candles and the Holy alter, and a baptismal fountain in the lobby. It had always been strange to him that churches were built like any other building. When he was a child, he imagined that angels had built churches while everyone else was asleep. He'd never spoken of this to his father, or anyone else for that matter, but he imagined it so hard that part of him still believed it as an adult.

Of course, now that he was awake through the night, he knew churches were built by men. He never saw any angels at night.

...

Sometimes he forgot her name. It wasn't intentional; other things just consumed his brain space. Then, it would bother him all day—he knew there would be something he was forgetting, but he couldn't remember what it was. And he wouldn't ask anyone else, because they didn't know he still thought about it at all.

Daisy Bellfleurs, that was her name—the first person Emmett had ever killed.

She was a pretty young redhead with freckles and blue eyes. He could still see her. She was reading on a rock in the woods—_Alice in Wonderland_, if his memory served.

He had been hunting—the correct kind of hunting—but her scent was too strong. Rose had tried her very best to stop him. Edward had been miffed about having to move. Carlisle and Esme and told him it was all right—everyone makes mistakes.

He looked her up every few years—no one knew about this. They would try and stop him; it wasn't very productive or healthy to hold on to such memories, but he did not feel right about forgetting Daisy Bellfleurs—after all, everyone else had.

She'd had an older brother who'd married and died about twenty years ago. He'd had four children, who were now adults. Two of them had had children, too. Emmett thought about going to see them under the guise of some door-to-door salesman—just to see what they looked like. They'd probably never heard of Daisy. People don't care about their great-grandfather's sister who died when she was fifteen. They forgot her.

But Emmett never did.

...

"She doesn't know you're here?"

"No."

"You lied to her?"

"I would have told her if she'd asked."

"She didn't?"

"She's not around at the moment."

Maria looked at him, nothing in her face, but volumes in her eyes. They were still bright red—vibrant, glowing. "You lost your accent."

Jasper almost smiled, "Yes."

"You sound ridiculous," she sneered and turned into the house. She was in the next room before she realized he wasn't behind her, "You coming?"

He followed her tentatively. The stench of human blood was powerful a mile away from the house. He could not image what it would be inside. But he'd wanted to do this for a very long time, and if Bella had taught him nothing else, she'd taught him that he had the capacity to resist if he wanted to.

He was almost sure of it.

...

AN: I do plan to continue this in the same vein--a little bit of everyone in every chapter. Tell me what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Here's chapter two. Hope you like it…

……………………………………………………………………

Maria's house was decorated in light yellows and blues. It felt very French, which seemed out of context. She led him into a room with more windows than walls with white wicker chairs and a coffee table. "Sit," she said, not at all kindly. He did. "I suppose you have something you'd like to discuss?" She sat as well.

"Not particularly," he admitting, shrugging. "I just haven't seen you in a very long time, and—"

"Through no one's fault but your own," she shot.

"I know," he held his hands up in surrender. "I just wanted to see how you've been."

"I've been wonderful," she snickered. "Couldn't be happier. And how have you been, Major Whitlock? A good, little boy, I hope."

"I wasn't expecting this much hostility from you, Maria," he shook his head. "It's been so long."

"I never forget a betrayal," she spat. "You should know that better than anyone."

He shook his head, "I thought you'd have moved on by now. Peter and Charlotte made it sound—"

"Peter and Charlotte are idealists. They make things that are just slightly less than horrible sound wonderful. Another fact you should know better than most," she shook her head.

"I'm sorry you're still so angry," he said, trying to calm her but finding it extremely difficult. After one hundred years, she'd learned how to resist his ability.

"And I'm sorry you're still so _tame_," she growled. She paused, waiting for him to contest the insult. He didn't. She pursed her lips, "But that doesn't make much sense, does it? Why come all this way to see me without letting your dear family know if there wasn't something…missing?"

His face fell.

"But, no. You're still perfectly content, aren't you? You enjoy living off of deer and cattle like a savage. You don't miss that high that fills your whole body at the moment your teeth pierce through some young thing's skin, and you can hear the scream…"

He'd begun to breath very deeply, fighting hard not to let her mood influence him in any way.

She stood and floated to him, leaning over, so her breath swirled sweetly around his face. She'd fed recently. He stopped breathing. "I can see how much it's changed you, Jasper. You're lying to yourself. You're. Not. Like. Them. Are you?"

He said nothing.

"You can't keep living like this another day, can you?"

He said nothing.

"The animals don't scream like you wish they would, do they?"

He took a long, deep breath and whispered, "No."

...

They were there very early. At least a half hour would go by before the mass was scheduled to start, and things like that rarely began on time. But neither of them minded waiting.

A girl with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair stopped at their pew, "Hey, Loch Ness. What are you doing here?"

Nessie looked up and smiled at the girl, "Hey." She shrugged, "Just thought I'd check it out."

The girl nodded, "Cool. Well, see you around." She gave a little wave.

"See ya," Nessie put a hand up as the girl walked away.

Carlisle watched as the girl sat down by herself in a pew on the other side of the church. She opened the hymnal in her lap and looked to be reading intently, when an older woman—her mother, he assumed—joined her. "Is that a friend of yours?" he turned to Nessie.

"Yeah," she shrugged, "An acquaintance. She was in some of my classes."

He nodded once, "And she calls you that."

Nessie smiled, "Loch Ness? Yeah. A bunch of kids do."

"And Jacob calls you Carlie…" he seemed like he was speaking to himself.

"Yep," she bit her lip.

"And Emmet calls you…what was it?" his brow wrinkled.

"Rouge," she groaned.

"Right," he nodded to himself.

"And Alice used to call me Miriam," she added, a little too enthusiastically.

"Miriam?"

Nessie nodded, "After that girl in the Capote story? She was like an adult in a little girl's body."

"As, yes, I remember that story. Not an overall positive one, if memory serves." The girl had almost haunted an older woman, driving her nearly insane.

"No, not really," she shrugged.

He was quiet for a moment, then shook his head, "Doesn't that bother you?"

"What?"

"Everyone calls you something different," he said.

"Oh," she smirked. "No, I think, in a weird way, it makes people friendlier."

He felt the most powerful longing to have that cheerfulness inside him. "But, Miriam was a devil, wasn't she?"

It took her less than a moment to smile like Mona Lisa and give a tiny little shrug, "Or an angel…"

...

"You have a house," Bella stood at the doorway, papers in her hands. Edward looked up from his reading slowly and quietly. She shook her head and handed the papers to him. He didn't look at them—he knew what they were. "Or is that some other Edward Anthony Masen who claimed the house in 1918 and was never heard from again?"

"It's a financial investment," he shrugged.

"Bull," she sneered.

He shook his head and sighed, "Bella."

"You kept your house," she said. "You had to have some reason to do that."

"Financial—"

"No," she crossed her arms over her chest. "Because you would have sold it by now. I'm sure it's worth tons. You've _kept_ it."

"It doesn't mean anything," he said.

"Of course it does," her eyes went wide. "You lived there."

"I don't remember living there," he countered.

"But you did!" she snatched the papers back. On the first page was a picture of the Masen estate. It looked exactly like it had in 1918. It seemed odd next to the modern homes around it. He must have paid someone to uphold it. She ground her teeth together.

"You're upset?" he stood and moved to hold her, but she flinched away.

"I don't believe you. This has to mean something to you—there has to be some kind of sentimental value—"

"Why? Why is this so important to you?"

"I don't know!" she sank into the chair he had been sitting in.

They let silence fall over them gently. She bit her lip, hard. He bent down and took her hand in his. "I don't need that anymore, Bella. I used to. I used to need that connection to something else, but that's gone now. I'm…I'm happy."

She remained quiet, but gave one small, understanding nod.

"I wish I could make you happy," he said very quietly. She had to strain to hear.

Her head shot up instantly, "You do make me happy. You know that. Don't say that."

"I'm sorry," he brought her hand to his lips. "It's just…you don't seem happy. There's something in your eyes that's impossibly sad. It wasn't there before…before all this," he indicated the papers in her lap.

They looked at each other for a long time, both of them afraid to say a word.

Edward pushed himself up so he was face to face with her and whispered, "You won't forget, love. I promise you."

"I can't talk about that," she whispered back quickly, and he dropped it.

"Let me make you happy," he begged. "I'll do whatever it takes. You want me to help you look up lost relatives? That's fine. I'll—"

"I want to see it," she said, quiet but forceful.

"See? See what?" he smiled.

"I want to see the house. I want to go to Chicago."

...

She felt like a shadow. She'd been watching Dorothy Daniels for two full days and still could not find the courage to speak to her. Jasper had called four times, and she'd ignored each one.

Dorothy had gone to the supermarket and bought a loaf of bread, some orange juice, ten cups of yogurt (there was a sale), and a bottle of shampoo with cucumbers on the label. She'd followed her through the aisles and watched with such curiosity as she examined each item. Sometimes she picked something up and read the ingredients, then put it back. Alice wanted to ask her why she'd put those items back. Was there something in them she did not like? Was she allergic to it? Was it too fattening? Did if have too many long, unpronounceable words?

She suddenly understood how Edward could watch Bella sleep for two years. Humans were fascinating.

She lived alone. Her husband had died. She wanted to ask her how. She watched Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy and solved the puzzles and said the answers before the contestants. Every time, she would get so excited and turn to her left, only to find the space empty. That was where her husband used to sit.

Alice wanted to cry for her, which was odd, because Alice had never cried. Not even when she thought Bella was dead or when the stock market crashed or when the twin towers fell. She had been close then. She'd wanted to warn someone, but she simply couldn't. Carlisle told her it was okay; she didn't believe him.

Dorothy was always asleep by nine o'clock. She slept for twelve hours. Alice remembered Bella saying she would be lucky if she got six.

It was seven thirty on the third day, when a boy approached her outside Dorothy's house, "Excuse me, miss. Are you lost?"

She was sitting on a bench, listening to Dorothy listen to the television. "No," she shook her head.

"Are—are you sure? It's okay if you are," he smiled. "We all get lost every now and then."

She wrinkled her forehead, annoyed, "I'm not lost."

"All right," he shrugged. "It's just…I've seen you here for a few days now."

"Are you following me?" she asked, sounding furious. It was ironic, coming from a stalker.

"No!" he smiled. "I just…well, it's a little weird."

"And I'm sure very interesting," she rolled her eyes. "But, if you don't mind--"

"I just like to walk by here every now and then and check in on…Mrs. Daniels," he shuffled uncomfortably.

She looked up at him for the first time. He was a teenager—maybe sixteen—with light brown hair and freckles across his nose. "Why do you do that?" she asked, her tone now sweet and curious.

"Oh, I dunno," he shrugged, looking down at the sidewalk. "I just…her husband—Mr. Daniels—he taught at my school, and he talked about her all the time."

"Oh," she said.

"And he always said how he didn't know what he'd do without her, you know? So…when he died…a bunch of us went to the funeral. He was a really cool guy. Anyway, at the funeral…I saw Mrs. Daniels…and…I dunno, she just looked so lost, you know?"

"Yeah," she whispered.

"So I come by here sometimes, just make sure she's okay. Sometimes I stop in and say 'Hi,' you know? Just so she has someone to talk to."

"Is that what you're doing now?" she asked gently.

"I was going to, yeah," he shrugged. "But, I mean, if you're lost I could help you find out where you're going. I don't think Mrs. Daniels would mind. In fact, I think sometimes she wishes I would just leave her alone."

"I doubt that's true," she smiled and stood. "I'm Alice."

"Hi, Alice. Uh, I'm Kyle," he held his hand out to shake hers, but she just continued to smile.

"I think that's a really sweet thing that you do for, uh, what was her name? Mrs. Daniels?"

"Yeah," he nodded.

"And," she smiled, "I would love to accompany you if you don't mind."

...

"My mother wore the same strand of pearls every time she left the house," Rosalie held one of Nessie's dresses. "They were beautiful—a gift from my father. And in the morning, before she woke up, I would sneak into her room and put them on."

"I don't remember my mother," Esme sighed, trying to. "I remember my husband." She cringed at the thought. Rose didn't seem to notice.

"I wanted to be just like her," she closed her eyes. "She was such a lady."

Esme smiled sadly, "You're very much a lady, Rose."

Rosalie bit her lip and put the dress in a box, "I don't think she was very happy. I don't remember her smiling much. I just remember her being beautiful…so beautiful."

"I'm sure she was happy," Esme closed the box of Nessie's old clothes. "You probably just don't remember."

"She wasn't happy being a mother, I don't think. She wasn't happy around me," she picked up a doll. "It's sad."

"I don't think it's true," she shook her head. "How could anyone not want to be a mother?"

"I don't really know," she brushed the dolls hair from her face. "It was all I ever wanted—to teach someone to be a lady like my mother."

Esme laughed lightly, "I never thought about what I would teach my child. I just wanted one."

"Emmett says he would adopt with me if I wanted," she whispered, as if it were shameful.

"A baby?"

"Yeah," she shrugged, and her voice became fragile, "He thinks we can raise her until she's seventeen or eighteen…"

"Then…" Esme's voice was colder than she'd meant it to be. It wouldn't be right, but Rose knew that. They would never go through with it.

"Then…he said she would be like Nessie," she shook her head. "He wants to make me happy."

"Would you really…?"

"No," she sighed. "I couldn't. Of course I couldn't."

...

If he closed his eyes, the bones of a deer sounded just like the bones of a person. He'd never taken any joy in that sound. There was never any excitement in that. It wasn't the point.

Emmett dropped the deer and drew the back of his hand across his mouth. His throat burned, just like it always did. He was never satiated, and hunting only made him realize that fully. He sat on a rock and stared up at the trees.

A couple was trudging through the woods about a mile away. "How do you not get lost out here?" a female voice laughed.

"I practically live out here," a man answered. "There's a great little spot a little ways from here. Just try and keep up."

"Do you ever come out here at night?" she giggled.

"Of course. It's incredible at night," he said. "Lots of little critters everywhere."

"Ew," she scoffed.

Emmett wrinkled his brow. The man seemed to be much older than the girl. She sounded like a girl.

"Almost there," he was breathing heavily from all the walking. Emmett furrowed his brow—a hiker would not exert so much effort on a little walk.

"What are we going to do when we get there?" she sounded very tired.

He laughed, "Oh, you'll see."

Emmett shivered. He did not think of himself as a monster like Edward often did. He'd killed a young girl named Daisy Bellfleurs, but it wasn't personal. There were worse monsters—and for them, it was personal. It was nothing but personal.

"Jim? Do you love me?" the young girl asked.

He laughed. "Of course, kid. Of course. Well, here we are."

Emmett ran.

…………………………………………

AN: I'm still sort of forming what's going to happen to all of the Cullens in their different endeavors, so if you have any ideas, I'd be glad to hear them.

And reviews! I'd be super glad to hear reviews! Tell me which story you like the best. Which one is the most interesting to you?


	3. Chapter 3

Listen. Listen. Listen.

"This is a pretty place," the girl nodded. Emmett could see her clearly now—no more than fifteen.

"I'm glad you like it," Jim smiled, taking her hand.

Her heart was beating quickly, but he could not tell if it was from fear or excitement—or possibly both. They do have a tendency to occur simultaneously. That was why people bungee jumped.

He'd almost ripped Jim's neck off, but instead wrapped his own arms tightly around a tree trunk to stop himself. He was still too far away for them to see him, and the sun was setting.

"I've been wantin' to take you out here for a long time, kid," he nodded to her.

He hated that word—kid. He'd been called kid by people much younger than him—of course, they looked older—but still. The girl didn't seem to like it any better. "I'm not a kid," she said, pouting like a kid.

Jim laughed, "No, no. Of course not. I don't mean it like that. It's just a word."

Just a word. Just a word like rape. Like jailbait. Like evil.

Jim was at least thirty, and his goatee made him look older. Emmett clutched the tree tightly, and his fingers began to dig into the bark.

"Well," the girl smiled. "Now that we're here, what should we do?"

Emmett closed his eyes. He could not see this.

He had become an expert at existing on the sidelines of life. He knew he should not exist. It wasn't natural. And so Carlisle said it was best…it was best.

"Well," Jim brought his hand to the girl's face, "I have some ideas."

It was best…

They were to be flies on the wall—simply there, never touching anything—never changing the course of any creature.

"Ideas?" she whispered.

But surely there were exceptions.

Surely.

Weren't there?

………………………………………………………………

They spoke the entire plane ride. It was terrible.

"The paper says it's going to rain," he said.

"That's good," she said.

"It's a shame we can't verify with Alice," he said.

"We'll survive," she said.

"I didn't mean to imply that we wouldn't," he said.

"Of course you didn't," she said.

"Are you still upset with me?"

"No."

"Renesmee says she may attend mass tomorrow with Carlisle."

"Church?"

"She says he asked her."

"That's strange."

"I suppose."

"How long until we land?"

"Another hour or so, I'd say."

"Oh," she looked out the window at the clouds.

"I think I read the Mariners won their game last night."

"Fabulous."

……………………………………………………………………………………

The ritual was particularly overwhelming. Somehow, everyone knew when to stand—sit—sing—pray. It was strange to Nessie that there were designated times to pray.

Carlisle fell back into the customs as if he'd never left. Of course, they weren't exactly the same—the change to English was nice, though he now felt like a fool for knowing every word of the mass in Latin.

About half way through the hour, everyone sat and the pastor came forward, down from the altar. Nessie unconsciously sat up straight and held her hands together in her lap.

He spoke with an accent Nessie could not quite distinguish. Carlisle could—Irish, Connacht dialect.

"Good evening, everyone," he said.

Neither answered, but they listened as those around them did. Carlisle cast his eyes downward—evening—because he could not attend mass in the morning as one was supposed to.

"I had planned a speech to give you all this week. It was a good one—full of metaphors and symbolic meanings and such. Instead, I'm just going to tell you a story and let you discover the rest on your own," he smiled. Nessie smiled back. She liked him already. "After all, I know we'd all like to be home in time for first pitch tonight, so I'll keep it short."

The church laughed. Carlisle did not.

"A friend of mine died Friday night," the priest said. "He was very old and in a good deal of pain. He had been ready to go for a few years. He loved to laugh and sing in Italian," he raised an eyebrow, "Though he wasn't very good."

The church laughed.

"Well, I went over to his house last weekend, and he asked me if I would do him a favor and try to contact someone for him. I told him I would certainly try. He told me the name of a woman he had known from college, and I found her name in the phonebook—she did not live too far away. And so my friend asked me if I would call her and ask her to come see him, for he needed to speak with her before he died. I told him, of course.

"I called the woman, and she did not seem to know my friend's name, but I explained that he was very sick and for whatever reason needed to see her. She was a kind woman, and decided to drive over to my friend's house. I was there the afternoon she visited. My friend seemed very nervous to see her. He asked her to sit down next to him and look at him in the eye. She did. And my friend spoke, 'You do not remember me, but I have thought about you each and every day for almost sixty years. I have done something terrible to you, and I could not allow myself to leave this life without receiving your forgiveness.'

"At this, the woman began to understand, and stood up. She was angry, and began yelling at my friend. She called him a monster—she called him evil. She called him a rapist. "

The church murmured. Nessie's eyes narrowed.

"My friend did not deny a thing, but simply asked again and again for forgiveness. The woman cried and looked to me, as if she thought I would force her to forgive him somehow. I simply sat and watched, for what else could I do? My friend tried to calm her, 'I am so very sorry. I know I can never take back what I did, but I am sorry. Please forgive me.'

"Well, I said I would make this story short, and I've rambled long enough. The woman did not forgive my friend. She said she simply could not."

The church was quiet.

"And yet I saw her yesterday at my friend's funeral. I watched. She did not speak a word to anyone, but wept through the entire service. Of course, it is impossible to know the fate of my dear friend's soul, as only God is privy to such information, but I do know that I was incredibly proud of my friend as I watched that woman scream at him and call him a monster—for it is one of the most difficult things in the world to ask for forgiveness. Isn't it much easier to simply forget or deny or hide? And yet, the Lord teaches us to forgive one another and, of course, to forgive ourselves," he looked out at the congregation for a long moment, before smiling, "Let us pray."

And the church prayed.

………………………………………………………………………………………………….

"Do you think she's lonely?" Rose sighed, glaring at the crib.

It was an absurd question. Nessie had never had more than an hour to herself as consequence of having so many doting family members. Esme smiled until she noticed Rosalie's expression. "Were you lonely, Rose?" she barely whispered.

"Who knows?" she shrugged. "I hope she's not lonely."

"She lives in a house with nine other people—"

"But she's the only one…like her."

"She's special," Esme smiled.

"She really is." They were quiet for a moment, folding and thinking and breathing in. "She's going to marry the dog."

Esme laughed, "Probably."

"Do you think she'll have-?"

"Perhaps, if she'd like to; she's still very young. There's no rush."

Rosalie stared, "A boy. She should have a baby boy. She'd like that."

"Edward Jacob?" her eyes shined smugly.

Laughter peeled through the warehouse, "God, I hope not." She shook her head, "I should have been more kind to her."

"To Nessie?"

"To Bella," she shrugged. "I gave her such a hard time, and she gave the family what no one else could."

Esme shook her head, "You had your reasons. Bella understands that. And it was so long ago."

She nodded, "She's good at that—better than I ever could be."

"At what?"

She closed her eyes, wistful, "Forgetting."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Maria took his by the hand. She walked in front of him quickly, holding firmly.

There was something comforting in the gesture—something like a mother and a son. There was unspoken, stolen trust—a total lack of freedom. There was an excitement and, with it, fear. There was no telling where he would be when his hand belonged to him again.

Alice led him only to safety. She would never bring him anywhere where the outcome was unknown. Every now and then, he hoped she would let go, but she never did.

He didn't breathe out habit as the scent hit his throat. He felt the fear—the anxiety. He made no move to pull away. He followed and watched.

"Meet SaraBeth, Major Whitlock," Maria smiled and stared at him, staring at the girl. There was blood—fresh, exposed, human blood. It was in her hair and stained the ropes that held her. It mixed with her tears. It was beautiful. "She's quite the screamer."

And Jasper breathed.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Next chapter! Thanks for the reviews; they're so great to read. I outlined the rest of the story, and I'm expecting to wrap this up with seven chapters.

Enjoy...

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was strange. There was absolutely nothing familiar about her. She was tall and lean with navy blue eyes and sun-damaged skin. She triggered no feeling in Alice—nothing happened when their eyes met. No bells went off, no choirs sang. She was just an old woman, nothing special. Nothing for Alice to hold on to.

Dorothy welcomed the two of them with an exuberant smile—as if she honestly did not see anything sad in the gesture. She indicated her couch and told them both to sit. Alice was put off by the smell of it—dust and perfume and air freshener. It had roses and daisies embroidered on it, and Alice was struck by the contrast. Had she ever seen those two flowers together before?

"Now, would either of you like something to eat or drink?" she nodded hopefully.

"No, thank you," Alice said, too quickly.

"Uh," Kyle smiled at her, "Sure, Mrs. Daniels. I'd love some of that ice tea I had last time, if it's not too much trouble."

"Of course, dear," Dorothy made her way into the kitchen, "I'll just be a moment."

"You know, it's okay," he shrugged to Alice once Dorothy was out of earshot. "I was a little weirded out at first, too, but…her ice tea is really good. She makes it herself. And…I mean, there's no weird, like, old people taste to it."

"I'm just not hungry," she shrugged. "Or thirsty."

"Okay," he nodded. "So…uh, do you live around here?"

"No."

"You don't?"

"Didn't I just say that?" she shot.

"Sorry," he cracked his knuckles. "Just trying to make conversation."

There were so many questions in her head. So many. She wanted to know about everything—every detail of her family's life—everything she couldn't remember. Cynthia—the institution—her parents—even herself. Could Dorothy have old photographs or paintings of a human Alice stashed away somewhere?

"Here you are, dear," Dorothy came back with two glasses of ice tea. "And I brought one for you too. Just in case."

"Thanks, Mrs. Daniels," Kyle smiled.

"Thank you," Alice reluctantly took the glass.

"You know, they say ice tea is good for the heart," Dorothy nodded to herself as she sat.

"It's great, Mrs. Daniels," Kyle smirked after sipping from his glass. He asked her about her day. She explained her monotonous activities that Alice had watched. Alice just stared, nodding occasionally, shifting her weight, running her fingers through her hair. There were no pictures on the walls; just knickknacks on warped shelves…a plastic martini glass, an embroidered 'Home is where the heart is' tapestry, a wooden miniature horse…a white porcelain ballerina.

"You know Alex Trebek used to own a ranch," she nodded, in the middle of some kind of discussion with Kyle.

"Cool," he shrugged. "I did not know that. Did you know that, Alice?" He smiled at her.

"Uh, no," she shook her head, distracted. "A...a ranch for horses?"

"Race horses," Dorothy nodded. "He had a Thoroughbred called Reba's Gold. Isn't that the oddest name? The poor thing."

"Have you ever had a horse, Mrs. Daniels?" Alice forced a tiny smile.

"Oh, once, when I was very little. My mother loved them," she nodded. "His name was Taffy." She laughed like a small child.

"I love taffy," Kyle shrugged, trying to appease her.

"So did I," she said. "I'm afraid I'm not supposed to have it anymore, though—"

"Your mother?" Alice nearly crushed the glass in her hands. "Your…your mother? She liked horses?"

"Love them," Dorothy shook her head. "She spent so much time down in the barn with horses…She was very happy there."

"That's great," Kyle shrugged.

"She…do you know how she…" Alice shook her head. She was stretching. "You don't by any chance know if her family was big into horses?"

"Oh, no, I'm sorry dear. She didn't talk about her family much," Dorothy smiled.

"Did you ride with your mother?" Kyle gave Alice a sideways glance. He probably felt like she was insane.

"Oh, I was never very good," she smiled modestly. "But I loved to watch her. She could do tricks and jumps and…she had the greatest horse. A beautiful mare. She had the loveliest long, black mane and the strength of a horse four times her size. She was a treasure that one."

"She sounds very special," Kyle said.

"Oh, yes. No one else was ever allowed to ride her. She was just my mother's. Her own Mary Alice. What a special thing she was."

Alice dropped the glass.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Too much! Too much! It was just too much!

"I'll leave you two alone," Maria excused herself, inching out the doorway she'd led Jasper through. He heard a key turn.

Too much…

"Please!" SaraBeth screamed. "Please, Mr., please don't hurt me!"

…too much…

"Please, Mr. Please, please. Help me, please!" She pulled against her restraints. She was pretty—olive skin with deep brown hair falling just past her shoulder. She wasn't wearing much. Just a dirtied navy blue tank top and tiny black shorts. Her eyes were blue. Her cheeks were pink.

Far, far too much…

"Help please, Mr.! I'm so hungry! So, so hungry!" She watched his face. "You don't want to hurt me, do you, Mr.?"

"Jasper," he snarled. "Stop with the Mr. It's ridiculous."

"Oh! I'm so sorry! Jasper, then!" She started crying. "Jasper, please! You don't want to hurt me, do you? You…please, Jasper! Please don't!"

"Quiet!" he demanded, and she gasped then tried to quiet her crying.

"Oh, please, Jasper," she whispered after a few moments. "Please, help me. I'm so hungry-"

She screamed. He hoped it was just from the fear. He didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to…

It rushed down his throat in mouthfuls, staining his teeth, polluting his mind. He sucked harder. She screamed louder. He was hurting her.

It was just too much…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"148 Bartlett, please," Edward said quietly, and the cab moved. It was very early, almost six o'clock in the morning. The city was quiet.

Bella sat, her arms crossed. "148 Bartlett," she scoffed, smug.

"I know the address," he shrugged. "I know lots of insignificant things."

"Hmm," she stared forward, and he smirked and inched closer to her.

"I do," he kissed her cheek. "I know the first hundred digits of pi; I know the king of hearts is the only king without a mustache; I know the plastic things at the end of shoelaces are called aglets; I know the top ten songs of 1987."

"Liar," she fought her forming smile.

"Oh really?" he tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned in, whispering. "One-'Faith' by George Michael. Two-'Alone' by Heart. Three-'I Wanna Dance With Somebody' by Whitney Houston. Four-'C'est la Vie' by Robbie Nevil. Shall I continue?"

"How am I supposed to know you're not just making these up?" she dared.

"You can look it up. I'll write them down for you," he promised. "Do you have a pen?" He began to rifle through his pockets.

"Edward," she placed her hands over his. "Its fine. I believe you." She brought a hand to his cheek. "I'm not angry with you."

"Because we're in Chicago?"

"Because you haven't done anything wrong," she shrugged.

"Does that mean we can go home?" he took her hand from his cheek and held it in his own.

"After we see the house," she nodded.

He chuckled and squeezed her hand. "So, so stubborn."

She smiled and laid her head down on his shoulder. He traced circles on her palm. "1987, huh?"

"Quite an important year for you, no?"

"Quite," she mocked him gently.

"And yet I seem to know more about it than you do," he shrugged.

"Edward Anthony Cullen," she sighed.

"So if I know more about the world that you came from, why can't you know more about the world that I came from?" he kissed her temple.

She leaned up and kissed his cheek, then lay back down.

"Bella?"

"I'm ignoring you," she whispered.

He chuckled lightly, and they both sat up when they felt the cab begin to slow. "Here we are, folks. 148 Bartlett."

Bella peered out the window in a near panic, and then sighed in awe, "Here we are."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Do I go up?" Renesmee whispered as the church stood and began moving in slow lines towards the priest, who stood with a dish, front and center.

Carlisle watched a woman hold her hands out and receive Christ. It was nice to see the church had replaced the idea of placing the host in one's mouth for them. It was never a very sanitary practice.

He wanted her to go. He hadn't thought long about it beforehand, but with the option laid out in front of him, he found the idea wonderful: Renesmee Carlie Cullen receiving holy communion. He fought the rush of emotion, "If you'd like."

She shuffled uneasily, "You're not going to?"

"No," he said, gently.

"Oh okay," she sighed. "Then…I'll just stay with you."

"No, Renesmee, by all means. Go if you'd like," he nodded encouragingly.

She shook her head, "That's okay. I'd rather be here."

"Really, go," he insisted then shrugged, "You have no reason not to."

She paused, "What does that mean?"

"Nothing," he smiled. "Just…please. It would make me very happy if you went up."

She examined his face--his whispering eyes, pleading with something, asking something. "Okay," she resigned, "What do I do?"

"You just wait in line, then, when you get up to the priest, put your hands out. He'll tell you that you are receiving the body of Christ. Then, you say 'Amen', eat the wafer, and come sit back down," he said.

She grimaced, "I have to eat something?"

He laughed lightly, "If memory serves, it hardly has any taste anyway. You'll be fine."

"All right," she shrugged, "If you really want me to."

"Thank you, Renesmee."

As if she was guilty of something, she stood cautiously, "Here goes nothing."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Rosalie had never been the damsel in distress type. And the one time that she could have been mistaken for it, she showed up all Uma Thurman to do the bastards in. Emmett had never seen her as weak. He'd never felt the need to protect her.

That was why it had been hard at first to understand Edward's need to be around Bella constantly. He was better about it now—now that he knew she could handle herself, but the first few times Emmett had seen them together, it had been almost comical. His brother was a different person—a personal bodyguard for this girl. He didn't laugh; he hardly breathed; he practically never moved.

"I don't understand," the girl said for the third time. "You live out here?"

"Near here," he tried to explain. "I just got a little lost. I was hoping you two could help me get home."

Jim was leaning against a tree, "Lost, huh?" Emmett was glad he couldn't hear exactly what he was thinking; his tone implied some sort of competitive feeling—as if Emmett was trying to steal the girl away fro himself.

"Oh, well," the girl shrugged. "I don't really know the woods all that well. Uh, Jim? Maybe you could--?"

"Yeah, yeah," Jim nodded. "Where do you live?"

"Uh, Fuller Way," Emmett said. The street was crowded, an Elementary school and a row of houses. Crowded. "You know where that is?"

"Uh, sure, yeah," Jim shrugged and pointed east, "Just head over that way. It'll lead you right to it."

He was wrong. Emmett would have ended up on the highway. Jim didn't know these woods at all. It was almost comforting—at least he hadn't done this before. "Oh," Emmett shifted his weight and stuck his hands in his pockets—dictionary definition of awkward teenager. "I was kind of hoping you could maybe take me there. I just don't follow directions really well. I mean, if its not, like, a lot of trouble."

"Well, we were actually kind of in the middle of something—" Jim smiled.

"Sure, we can take you," the girl shrugged.

"Thank you," Emmett smiled at her. "I'm sorry. You look really familiar. What's your name?"

"Rachel," she smiled. "You know, you look kind of familiar, too. Do you go to Miller?"

Miller. It would have been insulting if it wasn't so sad. Miller Junior High School. Junior High. She couldn't have been more than fourteen.

"Not anymore, but I used to," Emmett nodded. "I know I've seen you before, though. Rachel what?"

"You don't need to know that," Jim took a step towards him. Emmett turned slightly to Rachel. How could she be so blind? How could she stand there and witness this man luring her into a trap?

"No, really," he smiled to her. "It's on the tip of my tongue."

"O'Malley," she shrugged, happily. Jim let out a short breath. "And you are…" she narrowed her eyes, and then perked up and pointed to him, "Tommy Blake!"

"Yes!" he laughed with her.

"From Mrs. Nolan's Language class!"

"Exactly," he nodded. "That's where I've seen you."

"Look," Jim was sneering, "I hate to interrupt the class reunion, but Rach and I were kind of in the middle of something."

"Oh," Emmett looked to him, trying hard to look innocent. "What were you guys doing?"

"We were just-" Rachel started.

"That's really none of your business, Tommy," Jim stepped forward. "So why don't you just run on home and let us get back to it?"

And, then, a decision had to be made. Then, he had to choose—leave them to their 'business''; let Jim taint, traumatize, ruin this young girl as nature would have intended. Or not—or push Jim and Rachel as far away from each other as possible—change the order of things—fight with God.

"Go on," Jim nodded, inching—inching closer to his prey. "I'm sure your parents are wondering—"

"No," Emmett said calmly. "No. I'm not going anywhere."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Behind bars," Rose mused, holding a white rod out in front of her with both hands. "Seems rather cruel."

"Its for protection," Esme shook her head, pulling her own rod up from the crib's base. "So they don't fall out and hurt themselves."

"Right," she shook her head. "When the parents leave their children alone for the night to fair for themselves. It's terrible."

"Most parents need to sleep, Rose," she reminded gently.

There was something about the crib. Neither of them knew what it was. Neither of them spoke another word. Neither of them met the other's eyes.

Perhaps it was because it was the last step. Perhaps the crib made the whole thing real—they'd had a miracle for six years. They'd had a baby—a toddler—a child—an adolescent. They had held her in their arms, felt her tiny hands hold their own And now they had another mature, well-rounded, perfect adult.

It didn't seem in the least bit fair that it only took six years. Of course, Nessie had always been older than she appeared, so it was a relief for her that it only took six to reach adulthood, but for Rosalie and Esme…

They would cry if they could.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

AN: Next chapter might take a little bit, cause school is getting a little insane, but I tend to write faster if I have reviews encouraging me!


	5. Chapter 5

Hey, everyone. Its been longer than I would have liked since last update. Sorry about that, but I am back. I think I'm gonna wrap this story up with another two chapters, just so ya know.

Enjoy...

* * *

Amber—they were a light amber. Six years ago, Bella had spent an entire night in awe of the hue in her irises—proud that she was halfway to vegetarian gold. He could hardly remember that day in his own history. He had almost always been red or gold or black. He'd let them fade to black when he'd joined the family. Red to black to gold. No grey area. He could not handle grey area.

"Thank you!" SaraBeth still cowered in the corner. "Thank you. Thank you!"

"It's all right," he stared at himself, amber-eyed. "You're all right." He let out a calming wave and heard her take a deep breath.

"Thank you," she said again. "I thought I was gonna die."

He turned from his reflection and looked to her, smiling up at him, "What was your name? Sara something?"

She shrugged, "She calls me SaraBeth. She says I look like a SaraBeth. I'm not exactly sure what that means."

"Well," he held the distance between them, "What's your real name?"

Her face flushed, and he balled his hands into fists. "I don't know my real name. I can't seem to remember it."

He could have cried. Maria had picked her specifically for him. There were other bleeding humans in other rooms; he could smell them. This girl was for him. This girl was Alice before the fall.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"I male a left here, right?" Renesmee pointed in front of her at the red light. She had a pretty decent sense of direction, but the roads from the church back to the house were relatively new.

"Not yet," Carlisle gently shook his head. It would have made more sense for him to drive, but she'd asked, and he'd never been good at saying no. "Just keep going straight; I'll tell you when to turn."

"Okay," she nodded and stared at the dark, open road in front of her. He'd been oddly silent since they'd gotten in the car—no commentary on the mass, no reminiscing, no petty conversation, no nothing. "Um," she bit her lip and kept her eyes fixed, "Are you all right?"

He blinked slowly, "I'm fine, Renesmee. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know," she was instantly embarrassed. It was a rare occasion when her instincts led her to a dead end. "You're just quiet, I guess."

He laughed calmly, "I'm sorry. I've just been thinking."

She nodded, keeping her eyes firmly on the road in front of her, "About...uh, the mass? Did…did you like it?"

Her question gave him pause. Did anyone _like_ mass? "It was very interesting, yes," he nodded.

"Anything like what you remember?"

"No," he laughed. "Nothing at all. But the changes are rather nice. It's...easier."

"Yeah," she nodded, smiling, "I thought it would be a lot more formal. Like, that part when the priest guy was talking…?"

"The homily," he nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "That was…actually, I don't know…I just thought it would be more stuffy. You know…" She lowered her voice, "'Do this, and you'll go to Hell. Do that, and you'll go to Hell. Do any combination of the two, and you'll go to Hell'."

He smiled with her; it sounded familiar.

"But it really wasn't like that at all," she shrugged. "There was…there was a lot of grey area, I guess. I sort of like that. The grey."

He stared at her.

She laughed nervously, "You're doing that quiet thing again."

"I'm sorry," he seemed distracted.

"No," she shrugged. "That's okay. I'm sure it was pretty difficult for you, sitting there after all those years. I…I should be more sensitive—"

"Renesmee," he whispered it, as if he hadn't actually wanted to speak.

"Yes?" she wrinkled her brow.

"I'm very, very sorry…" he opened his mouth to continue, but, at first nothing came.

She laughed, "No, no. Don't worry about it, really. I'm just used to the constant talking. Probably too much time with Jake—" She glanced over to him, and her smile fell instantly. There was so much pain in his face, in every feature. She shook her head, "That's not what you mean, is it?"

"No," he sighed. "Renesmee," he shook his head, "You loved your grandfather very much, didn't you?"

It took her a few moments to respond. He waited.

She watched the road as he watched her face. Shock came first, then confusion, then hurt, then her practiced façade of acceptance. Then, she spoke, "I did, yes. Very, very much."

"You miss him," he knew he was pushing her. He knew he was hurting her.

"I do, yeah," she nodded, then shrugged, "But, I mean…I'm okay. I'm not…you don't need to be worried about me or anything."

"Renesmee, I'm terribly sorry," he shook his head.

"You keep saying that," her voice quavered the slightest bit.

"I've done something horrible," he whispered. "Something monstrous. Unforgiveable."

She left a lump in her throat, "Nothing's unforgivable."

"I'm afraid that's not exactly true, Renesmee.. And I'm sorry you have to live in such a world where it's so."

"I," her voice caught. "I don't understand. What does this have to do with Grandpa?"

He sighed, "You've learned your family history. Do you remember it?"

"Everything," she nodded confidently. Her father had told her the family's biographies as bedtime stories—in her earliest years, shortened, more pleasant versions—then later, the uneasy truths.

He smiled sadly, "Not everything."

"I don't understand," she ran the stories through her head. There were no blank spots. Every year was accounted for—every accident, every addition. "Dad told me—"

"It's not Edward's fault," he closed his eyes. "Even he doesn't know everything."

"Carlisle," she stopped at the red light. "I'm confused. What are you saying?"

"It's not true, Renesmee," he said simply. "I'm not who you think I am."

"Then who are you?" she almost laughed at the melodrama of it.

"I'm a murderer, Renesmee," he said, almost inaudible. "A murderer."

……………………………

How did it happen? How do things like this ever happen?

"Oh, my God!" Rachel shrieked loudly, but no one came. Emmett cringed at his benefitting from the seclusion Jim had created. "Oh, my God! Jim! What have you done!? Jim! Oh, God! Jim!"

Jim had somehow lost his right arm.

"Fucking asshole!!" he screamed at Emmett, trying to push himself up off the ground and failing.

There was so much blood. So much. How did it happen? How did he loose so much of his control?

"Jim!" Rachel wept in a terrified ball on the ground. "Oh, my God! Jim!"

He'd advanced toward the girl, and Emmett had latched onto his arm. He remembered that much. The rest had happened too quickly. Too much force—too much anger in his fingers—too much power.

"I'm gonna kill you," Jim roared. "You son of a bitch! I'm gonna kill you!"

That was option one—murder them both, destroy the monster and the damsel in one fell swoop—for the good of his family.

Option two—flee the scene. They didn't have his real name. They didn't really know anything about him. Was it possible he could leave them both alive?

"How could you?!" Rachel bawled, staring up in horror at Emmett. "How could you?!"

"God," Jim sneered. "Shut the fuck up, kid!"

No. They couldn't both live through this.

"You're gonna die, asshole," Jim promised.

So kill the monster and leave the little girl to his misery—let her have nightmares for the rest of her life—let her die thinking Jim really loved her. Let her live…

Or kill the girl…?

Be absolutely sure that no harm would come to his family. Was her life worth the risk? Was it worth the loss of even one member?

"Swear to God!" Jim launched himself at Emmett with the miniscule strength he had left, and—without thinking, Emmet raised his hand and broke the monster's neck, and he'd slain the dragon.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"All this stuff is so great," a perky blonde with a tight yellow t-shirt nodded to them. Her nametag read 'Carol.' "The Lord will surely bless you for donating it."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Rosalie lifted the box filled with books and carried it from the car to the church, where others had formed piles of different material things. She walked slowly, so as not to draw any more attention than she naturally did.

"Have you kept these all this time?" Carol smiled to Esme. "Since she…?"

"No," she smiled. "These are my granddaughter's."

"Oh!" Carol clasped her hand together, "How wonderful! But you seem so young to be a grandmother!"

Esme laughed and felt the lie fall out as naturally as the truth would have, "Actually, my husband and I adopted orphan teenagers a few years ago; these belong to my son Edward's daughter, Renesmee."

"You adopted. That's so kind of you," Carol nodded. "And teenage orphans. I'm sure they were quite a handful."

She smiled, "They all brought their own special challenges, I suppose." She watched Carol examine the labels on the boxes. She was barely twenty. "Do you volunteer a lot for things like this?"

"Sometimes," she shrugged. "Its just nice to know that there are good people out there somewhere. It can get hard to remember that."

"I know what you mean," she nodded.

"Next," Rosalie returned and held her arms out for another box. Esme handed her the first box of clothing.

"Do you live around here?" Carol shrugged, watching Rosalie leave.

"Oh," Esme turned away slightly. "No, we live down in Aberdeen? We just noticed the collection happening here, so we drove up." They had avoided the Aberdeen churches for fear that the family would catch them—just in case.

"Oh, that's nice. I think I've been to Aberdeen," she nodded. "It's a nice place."

"Yes, we like it very much," Esme agreed.

"How old is…what did you say her name was?"

"Renesmee?"

"Yeah, that's it. That's a pretty name," she smiled. "How old is she now?"

"She's…" Esme smiled, "Six."

"Oh! I have a cousin who's six," Carol placed a hand on her heart. "He's so funny! And so creative, too. We think he's going to be some kind of artist—he draws wonderful pictures. Here. I have a picture of him somewhere." She pulled out a photo of a young boy in green overalls with brown, slicked back hair and a deviously cute smile, and handed it to her. "There's my Toby."

"Next," Rosalie appeared and held her hands out, but Esme was lost.

"He's beautiful," she whispered.

"Esme?" Rose shook her head and took the picture. "Oh," she shrugged and looked up at Carol. "He's yours?"

"My aunt's," she nodded.

"Hmm," she placed a hand on Esme's shoulder. "You know, mom. I could ask some of the guys inside to carry these, if you'd like to get going?"

Esme looked at her as if she was waking up, "Oh, all right. That would be…yes," she nodded. "And tell them thank you."

Rosalie gave Carol back her picture and was gone and back much faster than she should have been. Esme waited in the car, until Rosalie told her all the boxes were gone. And they drove away.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Cooper family lived happily in their home at 148 Bartlett. Jason Cooper had scribbling drawings hanging up in the windows. Michael Cooper blasted music from his bedroom upstairs. Anna Cooper was doing taxes at the table, while her boyfriend, Steve, was cooking dinner.

Jason was in first grade. He was the leader of his class on Monday, which meant he stood in the front of the line when the class went to lunch, and he presented a poster he made with Anna about who he is to the rest of his class. He had tried to kiss a girl named Talia on her birthday last week, but she'd wiped it off her cheek. He had waited until he got home to cry. Before school had started, he was scared to ride the bus, because he still didn't know how to buckle his own seatbelt, but then Anna taught him, and he was fine.

Michael was in ninth grade. He got a D in Pre-Algebra the year before, so he was in a basic skills class this year, but it was stupid, because he only got the D, because the teacher hated him, because she only liked girls. He was really good at science—he wanted to be a coroner. Someday, he was going to marry Aubrey Gendrey, but it wouldn't be one of those lame weddings. It was gonna be cool. She was gonna wear a really low cut tank top, and he was gonna wear his ACDC shirt.

Anna divorced her husband after they grew apart and never looked back. She worked hard at her sales firm and was planning on asking for a promotion next month. She sometimes worried that Jason was mildly racist or that Michael secretly hated her, but she refused to spend her time worrying about things outside of her control. She went to see a therapist once every two weeks just to make sure she was mentally stable. She probably was.

Steve was too young for Anna, but neither of them were looking for anything serious. He was planning on asking her later that night if she'd be interested in accompanying him to a bondage party.

Bella and Edward Cullen had nothing to do with them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Four more hours, standing outside—watching…

She wondered why she cared so much. She didn't need a family, did she? She had a family, didn't she?

Alice had helped Dorothy Daniels clean up the spilled ice tea, apologizing fervently, offering to replace the broken glass. Dorothy had explained to her that that was not at all necessary, but she insisted, probably too harshly, because Dorothy then asked if Kyle and Alice would give her some time to rest. Alice figured she assumed she was crazy. So then, that made everyone to whom she was biologically related. Brilliant. What a successful endeavor this had been!

And so, again, she waited outside her niece's house, wondering about the horse that bared her name.

At least it was something.

At least it was some kind of proof that she had, indeed, existed in her family's life, at one point.

But there was still so much…

Why a mental hospital? Was there a specific doctor entrusted with her care? Was he very pale and rather picky about his diet? Did Cynthia ever visit? Why didn't she mention the name's inspiration? What had happened?

…What on earth had happened?

She had thought for a long time that her life now was an entirely separate entity than her life then. After all, she wasn't even the same biologically that she had been. She no longer had a heartbeat—no longer slept—no longer aged. She was no whoever she had been before.

And then there was Bella. Bella, who'd barely changed at all. Bella, who still found the exact same things important. Bella, who visited with her father and daughter and husband and then sucked out the blood of a grazing deer. Bella, who attended her five year high school reunion.

So it mattered, she'd decided. Whoever she had been before, it mattered.

But now there was all this pain—which had never been there before. All these feelings that had no gratification. All these questions, which seemed frivolous before…and now they mattered…

Damn it, Bella.

* * *

Review and I will grant you three wishes! (As long as all three wishes are updating eventually...hehe)


	6. Chapter 6

Hey, okay, so faster update this time. Much faster, in fact. I got all hyped on this story last night, so...

Enjoy!

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"Sometimes I forget it happened," Carlisle spoke quietly, after Renesmee had pulled the car over to the side of the road. "Or I start to believe my own lie. It was so very long ago. My very first few days of…this…" he looked to her for a moment, then turned away. "His face fades; the taste fades. There was never any proof. I don't think he had any family. I don't think anyone ever looked for him. He was just an old man. Just…just an old man…"

She looked at him for a long time, "Maybe you did him a—"

"But what if he did have a family? What if he had children and a wife and a granddaughter who cried for days…" he looked at her, too much pain in his eyes.

"I…I don't know," she shrugged, wary and unprepared.

"And then to lie about it," he snarled. "To have you all look to me as some kind of moral compass, when I'm no better than a malicious killer."

"That's not true," she shook her head. "Look, I don't know exactly what happened, but…I mean, I know you're not the only one who's…made mistakes."

"Made mistakes," he closed his eyes. "Mistakes. Is that what we call them now? Our murders? Mistakes? Renesmee, it isn't right. It can't be right."

"Its not," she agreed. "But, Carlisle…you…you help people. You save people's lives. And every one of them has a family, too. Everyone of them has people who care about them…I'm sure some of them have granddaughter's that cry for days…"

"Yes," he nodded. "I try to make amends. I try to find some kind of forgiveness. …I'm not sure it works."

"Of course it does," she shrugged. "One life for thousands of others?"

"But…" he hung his head. "If it had been Charlie Swan in that alley. Just some old man who I did not care to know…Just _food_."

"I…I don't know what you want me to say," she had never been so conflicted—was she to reprimand one grandfather for the death of the other? "I'm sorry."

"Renesmee," he reached across and took her hand. "I should be the one apologizing—apologizing a million times for a million different things, not the least of which placing this new burden on your shoulders."

"Oh," she gave a tiny smile, "Don't worry about that. My shoulder's have been pretty burden-free as of late, so…"

"I don't know what I wanted to accomplish," he admitted. "I just…wanted to say it. I needed to say it."

"Maybe…" she spoke in a quiet voice. "Maybe you wanted to be forgiven?"

He echoed her volume, "I don't think anyone can truly forgive me."

She squeezed his hand and bit her lip, "Can I try?"

~*~*~*~*~*~

"What are you doing?" Rosalie drifted into the kitchen, languidly. She and Esme were the first two family members to come back home. The house was lonely without its normal occupants—quiet—unsettling.

"Jacob will be home soon," Esme smiled, staring down at the counter. "I thought I'd make dinner."

Her nose wrinkled with disgust, "_Why_?"

She laughed, "Just wanted to do something nice, I suppose."

Rosalie snorted and leaned against the counter as Esme chopped tomatoes. "What are you making?"

"Pasta," she said, uneasy. "I looked it up. It seems simple enough."

"Yeah," Rose nodded, "I think I remember that. Simple." There were foggy glimpses of maids and boiling water. "Do you have everything you need?"

"I think so," she nodded. "I'm going to try and make my own marinara. Which, is a little ambitious."

She laughed, "You've managed to keep a household of vampires under control for nearly a century. I think you can handle tomatoes and onions."

"Oh," she continued chopping. "Its much more than that. I've…I've got garlic and cloves and…white wine…basil…oregano…olive oil—_not_ virgin."

"What's the difference?" she shrugged.

"You know," she stopped and looked up. "I have absolutely no idea."

For a moment, they looked at each other, admiring—questioning—appreciating, then each pair of lips curved up and their voices laughed together.

Their laughter faded after a few moments, and Rosalie watched her mother make dinner for a young man once considered an enemy, now considered family. Her biological mother had declared the Cullens as enemies—they were the only family to ever rival the Hale family's affluence. She had told Rose to dig up any kind of dirt on them, and she had tried. She'd plotted with a girlfriend to spread the rumor that Edward was a heathen. Her smile grew at that particular memory.

"Esme?" she asked quietly. "Could you use some help with that?"

~*~*~*~*~*~

"It's a nice city," Bella smiled, watching it become smaller and smaller from the plane window.

"I'm sure it is," Edward held her waist close to him, his head resting on her shoulder.

"My friend, Maggie, from Phoenix? She went to Chicago, once, for some kind of family reunion. She said it was nice," she ran her fingers through his hair, again and again, combing it.

Comfortable moments of silence passed, and he smiled up at her, "Are you alright?"

"Fine," she smiled down at him. "Thanks for the window seat."

"Any time," he laughed.

"I don't know what it was," she whispered, her voice pained. He sat up instantly. "I'm sorry I dragged you out here. It was stupid." She shook her head. "Stupid house. Stupid family. I'm sorry."

"It wasn't stupid," he said.

"You don't have to say that," she smiled. "I don't need to be protected from my own stupid ideas. It was stupid. It was a house that you used to live in with people who I don't know and never will know and you barely remember and…I'm just trying to figure out…why?"

"Why do you think?" he took her hand.

She took a deep breath, "Well...I don't know. I just…I wanted to know that part of you. I guess it would make me feel, uh, something."

"That's understandable," he nodded.

"Really?" she smiled and pulled his arm across her shoulders. "Cause its pretty incoherent and mumbly in my head. Makes sense to you?"

"Perfect sense," he kissed the top of her head.

"Well, then, swami, care to let me in?" she traced random patterns on his shirt.

"You lost family," he said gently. "So you went looking for more, but you're different than the rest of us. Your lives aren't separate, so you won't ever disconnect from your human life. They're too intertwined. You have nothing to worry about."

She took a moment to consider that, watching Chicago all but disappear under a layer of clouds, feeling nothing. "Oh," she smiled up at him. "That simple, huh?"

He leaned down to kiss her, "You are never _that_ _simple_, Mrs. Isabella Swan-Cullen-Masen-whatever you want your name to be. Never, ever _that_ _simple_, but I think I'm beginning to get a handle on you."

She laughed and kissed him, "You make me sound much more impressive than I am."

"Impossible," he smiled, before kissing her once more.

She hummed lightly, laying her head on his chest. "Impossible," she mused.

"Bella," he held her close. "Do you ever miss it?"

"Miss what?" she shrugged against him.

"Do you ever regret…the decision?" he shoulder's tightened—preparing for her answer.

"No," she said, without a moment's pause. "Edward," she sat up and took his face in her hands. "No. Not for one second." She pulled his face into hers and kissed him again. "Not one second."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Alice never went to graveyards. They were pointless places—places for bodies to decay—places for things to disappear into the soil. People cried there, mourning death. They pretended to talk to the dead for solace. It was ridiculous—totally ridiculous.

And yet

One last stop before traveling back home—there was just one more thing she needed to see.

The two tombstones were almost exactly alike—they were the exact same height and color, with the same perfect arch across the top. And yet, they were painfully different. Under Cynthia's name, there were dates signifying an age of seventy-four, there were kind words about being a treasured daughter, beloved wife, and devoted mother. Not a sister. She was not a sister.

Under Mary Alice Brandon's name, there were dates spanning less that a decade. The words below were not kind, just informative—daughter and sister. And that was all.

Jasper was going to call in five minutes. That was really, really good. She hadn't needed him so much in a very long time.

She sat between the gravestones and closed her eyes—trying to imagine what the two girls would have looked like standing next to each other. Did they look alike? Did Cynthia have dark, black hair like her older sister? Did Mary Alice smile? Did she laugh? Did she dance? Did Cynthia like her? Did she admire her? For what?

What were Cynthia's secrets? Did she like boys? Did she tell her sister about them? Were they close? Did she harbor visions as well, learning to ignore them when she saw what had happened? Did she hate Mary Alice? Did she resent her?

Did it matter?

"Hi," she sighed into the phone, eyes closing with relief.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

"I miss you," he breathed into the phone, knuckles tight around the steering wheel.

She laughed, "You have no idea."

Jasper smiled, "Why? What's wrong?"

He could only half listen to her explain about her new questions that could never be answered. There were too many images left over in his mind.

Maria had come back into the room just as Jasper was deciding to help SaraBeth escape. He'd tried to downplay his plans, so that she wouldn't do anything rash.

"No!!" she had screamed. It was one of those screams you hear about, but rarely have the opportunity to attend. Blood-curdling, that was what the humans called it—so atrocious it could curdle blood.

She did not make the poor girl's death quick. Maria has bit into her, instead of simply draining her, which put a tiny amount of venom in her system. She'd screamed at that, as it traveled through her veins. Then, Maria bit again and again and again. Eventually, Jasper thought she might be making the girl like them—a new protégé, perhaps—but then she bit again and drained the girl dry, slowly—painfully slowly.

"I just don't know," Alice was speaking quickly and quietly. "I don't know if it means anything."

"We're not who we were, Alice," he said, determined, hoping she had not looked to see his glowing, amber eyes. Let her have faith in him for a few more hours until she saw them in person.

"I suppose," she sighed. "How's Maria?"

"Fine," he grumbled. "She's just fine."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Nessie would probably cry. He'd feel bad about that.

They'd all look at him with their disapproving, condescending eyes. Another town, another accident. Edward would be the worst. He would instantly see a million other possibilities—other avenues he could have taken—all totally useless now. Jim was dead. Rachel was traumatized. The Cullens would have to move.

"You're a monster!" she screamed over the pedophile's dead body. "A monster!"

"He-he was going to hurt you," he tried.

"He loved me!!" she screeched

"Shh!" Emmett knelt down to her. "Don't scream," he pleaded. "Please, don't scream."

She looked at him with unbelievable fear, "I don't understand." Tears fell as she stared at him, "You're not Tommy Blake. You—you weren't lost. I don't understand. Why did you come here? Who are you?"

"Its not important. I'm no one, really," he said, repelling the idea that he sounded like Batman. "I just wanted to make sure you didn't get hurt."

She shook her head, "No. You don't understand." The tears were free flowing. "He said he loved me. He said he was going to take me to Hawaii, and he said I could bring some friends and he said—"

"He lied, Rachel," he tried to be gentle. "Here, why don't you step away from—from there?"

"I think I should tell somebody," she whispered.

"All—all right," he sighed. Hopefully Rose wouldn't be so upset. They hadn't gone to high school this time around. Maybe in the next town, they could all go together, now the Nessie had graduated. "I'm going to go now. So…you can do whatever you'd like. Just close your eyes for a second."

"Why?" she asked, tired and afraid.

"Just for a second," he repeated. He could tell she wanted to ask again, but she didn't. For whatever reason—the face, the voice, the smell, the tone, who knew?—she closed her eyes, gently, then tighter.

It took him milliseconds to pick her up and run a good hundred yards deeper into the woods. By the time her eyes were open, she was far away from Jim and anything familiar to her. "Wh—what?" she barely had time to look around, before he, as gently as he could muster, pushed her head into the trunk of a tree—it wasn't nearly enough force to kill her, or even do permanent damage—but perhaps it was enough to disorient her, maybe even cause her to forget what had happened…if he was lucky, but when was he ever lucky?

He didn't relish dismembering the decaying pedophile. He barely even thought about it—they weren't arms and legs and a torso—they were just things to be carried. He buried them each more than ten feet down, scattered around the wooded area, carrying the head the farthest from the action. It wouldn't prevent them from finding it, just slow them down—enough to get the Cullens out of town without anyone raising an eyebrow.

Alice would be frustrated she'd missed it, but not otherwise upset. And at least he had Jasper—always a peg or two up on the disappointment list than him. Bella's reaction would be interesting; he'd never seen her move before, because of an accident. They'd moved before, so that Nessie could go to school without people recognizing her last name. This would be different.

Jacob's reaction would be interesting, too. Would he regress to the hate he knew so well before? Would he be afraid?

His parents would be understanding. He had that. He always had that.

With the job done, he began walking home—walking, not running. There was no reason to run. He quickly devoured a passing deer, just so his family wouldn't be worried that his eyes were still black.

He enjoyed the trees and listened to the birds, wondering if he should regret the moments that it took for the whole thing to occur. What could he have done differently?

Let him hurt her.

Let him live.

Let him hurt her, then go home to his aging wife, who wonders where he's been all day.

It was what was supposed to happen.

But as much as he considered, he could not see rightness in that path. It wasn't right. Sometimes, the world wasn't right. It had not been right the afternoon he'd found Daisy Bellfleurs reading in the woods, and it had not been right today.

He changed things—effected them. He wasn't a fly on the wall, watching the world's people. He was a part of the world—a moving, thinking part of the world—whether it wanted him or not.

* * *

One more chapter to go, but this one will be a little different--just a little Jacob and Nessie time at the end of the day. Yay!

Please review! It makes me go super-duper fast! (sort of, in theory, depending on whether or not my professors give me actual work to do...?)


	7. Chapter 7

AN: Hey, everyone. Last chapter! Thanks for staying with the story. Hope you've enjoyed it!

* * *

At the end of the war, the veterans return home. There is a show—a parade—to welcome them. There are hugs and kisses and praise and questions—but not too many questions—not about the wrong things.

And then they are left alone. The cameras and people and questions fade away, and they are left with the war and their families who want them to be someone they once were.

Then the depression sets in and the loneliness chokes them and the guilt rises up to look them in the eye.

And they aren't the same. How could they be?

"Guess who?" he whispered in her ear, gently, not wanting to distract her from the book in her lap. She looked heartbreakingly cute with that little 'V' between her eyes that she got while concentrating.

"Hi," she smiled and brought both her hands up to his one, pulling it down. "I missed you."

He sat down across from her on her bed, and she leaned forward and kissed his lips, then smiled. Jacob laughed, "Geez. It was less than a day, Carlie."

"Too long," she shook her head, wrapping her arms around his neck and placing the book beside her. "How's Billy?"

He shrugged, "Still dancing."

She smiled and pulled herself into his lap, "Of course."

"He misses you—insisted I bring you with me next time."

"Well then, I guess you'll have to take me."

"Guess so," he rested his forehead on hers. "How was church?"

"Eh…" she sighed and bit her lip. "Weird and…heavy and…I said weird?"

"You did," he smiled.

"It was weird," she nodded.

"Why's that?"

She winced slightly and took his face in her hands, "Ugh! I really do wish I could tell you, but…"

"Secrets?" his eyes went wide.

"I'm sorry," she pulled him into a hug.

He grinned widely and brought his hands down to tickle her sides. She squealed and playfully pushed him away. "You're keeping church secrets from me, little girl?" He pinned her down and continued to tickle her.

"Not by choice, I swear!" she laughed. "Stop! Jake!" They both laughed as he pulled his hands away and rolled off of her, lying next to her on the bed. After a few moments, she turned towards him, leaning up on her elbow, "I promise, Jake. If I could tell you, I would."

"Don't worry about it," he shrugged. "I'm just messing with you."

"Promise?"

He held up a hand, "Wolf's honor."

She smiled and rolled on top of him, "Are wolves terribly honorable? I seem to remember something about little pigs and grandmothers."

"Ugh," he pretended to be offended. "A few bad apples and the rest of us as stuck with that rep for eternity."

"Ah, I see. So you're a nice doggy, then?" she smirked.

He wrinkled his nose, "When I wanna be."

She giggled and ducked down into another kiss. They both smiled when they broke apart, and Nessie pushed herself off him.

Jacob inhaled, smelling the garlic from downstairs, "You don't by any chance know what that's about."

"No," she shrugged. "Though my guess would be for you."

"You think Blondie's cooking for me?" he cocked a doubtful eyebrow.

"Stranger things have happened," she mused.

"Hmm," he put a finger to his mouth, "No, you know, not really. They really haven't."

She laughed, "Hey, maybe she's trying to grow as a person. Expand her horizons. Make new friends."

"Friends?"

"Yeah, you and Rose—you're gonna be 'besties' in no time. I'm sure of it," she nodded, running her hands through his hair. "You growing it out again?"

"Nah, just incredibly lazy," he shrugged. "You like it?"

She wrinkled her nose, "No. Not really—not at all actually. It's…I mean, if I'm being honest, it's kind of painful to be looking at you right now. I'm, uh, in physical pain as we speak."

"Wow," he nodded.

"Yeah," she bit her lip, "Its, uh, its pretty bad."

"Well then, I guess I should fix that, huh?"

"Jacob Black," she pushed him gently, "_Pay_ someone to cut your hair. _Pay_ someone who knows what they're doing! You're being totally irrational."

"I don't need someone else to cut it," he shrugged. "I can do it just fine. It's a waste of money."

"Hey, as someone who spends a good amount of time looking at you, I think my opinion should hold some weight here," she kissed him. "Okay? I order you, you…imprinter, you…I order you as your imprintee to pay someone to give you a freaking haircut."

"Ugh," he gave an overdramatic sigh, "Well, now I guess I have to."

"Yep," she smiled. "You absolutely have to."

Downstairs, they could hear the family come home behave how they always did. Carlisle joined in on the cooking, and Bella offered advice and encouragement as Edward watched her ease and comfort with pride.

Jasper and Alice had given a very brief greeting to everyone before darting upstairs—so quick the family could barely see their faces.

Emmett was waiting outside the house, taking his time walking to the door.

And for a moment, things were just as they always had been. For a moment, the parade marched through and music played and everyone felt like they could be who they once were.

"What's wrong?" Jacob leaned his forehead against Nessie's.

She opened her mouth to say something and then bit her lip and shrugged.

"Church secrets?" he smiled.

"Not exactly," she wrinkled her brow. "I just…I don't know if it was all worth it, you know? I'm not sure what was accomplished. I'm not sure _why_ it needed to happen."

"Did you grow as a person? Have you repented against your sins?" he smiled.

"Could you not mock me for three seconds, please?" she tried not to smile.

They both laughed lightly, and he nodded, "I'm sorry. Well, I'm sure _something_ was accomplished. Church is good for, you know, self-actualization and meditation and…other very important 'ations'."

"Yeah, yeah," she nodded. "I guess. I just…I thought something would change—something would happen."

"Maybe it will," he shrugged.

"Yeah," she said. "Maybe it will."

"Renesmee," Edward stood at the open door and knocked twice on the frame.

"Oh, uh, hi, Dad," she smiled nervously, trying to inch herself off Jacob's lap discretely.

"You need to come downstairs," he said. "You too, Jacob. Emmett—he did something, and we all need to—well—discuss."

"Is everything okay?" she asked.

The family grouped together and listened as Emmett explained as well as he could. Their voices got louder as the hours went by and louder still when Rosalie caught the red tint to Jasper's eyes. Bella was quiet, still not feeling like enough of a vampire to discuss purely vampire issues. Jacob held Nessie's hand and did not let go. Carlisle was calm and pacifying, while Esme contained and refrigerated the meal she'd successfully made. Edward and Alice stayed inside their own heads, throwing out potential solutions and speaking to no one.

And things had changed.

* * *

Thanks again for reading! Reviewing makes life worth living!

Also, just as a very minor side note, the title of the story was inspired by "Winter Song" by Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson. Its beautiful, and you should all listen to it!

Thanks again

-LovelyTomorrow


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